


Nut Farmers Insurance Company: You're in good hands?

by LargeBeefFriedRice



Series: Terrible Tom Imagines [4]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Farmer Tom, Gen, Nutter Tom, Other, Parody, Terrible Tom Imagines, still not funny, tom hiddleston - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-28 23:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15717405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LargeBeefFriedRice/pseuds/LargeBeefFriedRice
Summary: Imagine you are some kind of assistant and have been hired on to help the one and only, Tom Hiddleston. Who would have guessed that it is actually a hard job? Or that actors are crazy?Based on the Terrible Tom Imagines Blog on Tumblr.#4: Maybe you should have just gone to bed. Instead, a quick peek into your bathroom results in a fire. Let's hope you don't lose your job. Or let's hope you do?





	Nut Farmers Insurance Company: You're in good hands?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,  
> Welcome.  
> Let me start off by saying that if you have a Tumblr then please go follow @TerribleTomImagines and @LyingTom (the fabulous creator).  
> Once on the Terrible Tom blog, you should check out all the incredibly funny and genius people who contribute to it!  
> Definitely, don't follow me. It's not worth it. (Unless you want direct links to the specific imagines that inspire each one-shot. But even then you could just go to the actual Terrible Tom blog.)  
> Thank you.  
> p.s. This is just for fun. I do not think anything terrible about Tom Hiddleston or really imagine him this way.

The sensation of suddenly waking up from a weird dream is never pleasant.

 

Especially when you were dreaming about Tom Hiddleston redecorating your apartment with a bunch of crucifixes that had Loki wigs and helmets on. In the dream, you had just been about to scream at him, to ask what exactly he thought the little Lokis were going to protect you from, but instead, you now found yourself half sitting up/ half falling off your couch while trying to catch your breath.

 

Now that you think about it, you don’t remember falling asleep on the couch.

 

Hell, you barely remembered getting home and changing clothes. But here you are. Feeling like you ran a marathon and trying to decide if your knee is hurting from **A)** almost tumbling off the couch, **B)** because you’re old (by your standards), or **C)** if it’s a residual effect from Tom busting your kneecap.

 

But something in your gut says it wasn’t the contents of your dream that really woke you up. Your heart starts to beat harder as you feel anxiety creep over you.

 

A keen glance around the living room shows nothing out of place.

 

**Wait.**

 

Something was out of place.

 

From your vantage point on the couch, you can clearly see into the foyer where the front door to your apartment stands half open.

 

There is no way that you would have left it that way. No matter how tired you were.

 

Then again you don’t remember even getting on the couch… so maybe you did?

 

You stagger, weak knee still throbbing painfully, and noiselessly close the door while eyeing the foyer. Nothing was out of place in the little space. You always leave your personal belongings on the Bombay chest sitting next to the door.

 

Everything is still there.

 

Maybe you really had been out of it.

 

Shrugging and deciding not to put any more thought into it, you start to make your way to your bedroom. As you walk into the hallway you see the clock on the wall shows 7 PM. This makes you hesitate. It’s awfully early to go to bed.

 

Or not. Who cares? You run your own life.

 

But before you can truly decide if it’s bedtime or not, a sound starts drifting your way from the very end of the hallway. Where your bathroom is and where a light is clearly beaming from under the closed door.

 

**Holy shit! Someone broke into your house to use your bathroom!?**

 

You reach up and grab the clock off the wall. It’s the only thing within reach to use as a weapon and there is no way in hell you’re going to confront a toilet thief without protection.

 

You time your soft steps with each tick that echoes in your ear, as you hold the wall-clock over your shoulder. Ready to strike the perpetrator.

 

Once at the door you attempt to do your best impersonation of a ninja, by mutely turning the doorknob and then gradually opening the door.

 

By now you can distinctly hear someone mumbling under their breath. Their voice sounded light and almost sing-songy.

 

With a slowness that would have impressed the unnamed narrator of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’, you poke your head into the room and then promptly drop your clock onto the floor. It lands with a heavy thud on its rim and rolls backward into the hallway.

 

The sound is followed by another, even heavier, plop from the bathtub and water splashes up and over onto the linoleum floor.

 

“TOM! DAMN! Are you okay?”

 

You don’t bother to roll your sweatpants up before sloshing further into the room to check on the now prone Tom. He lifts his head out of the water, bubbles sitting on top of his head, but stays in his reclined position with one leg hanging over the edge of the tub and the other splayed up against the other side.

 

“Seriously, Tom,” you kneel next to the tub and give his face a once-over. “You could have actually hurt yourself.”

 

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I was just about to get out,” he shakily points at the towels he’d left sitting on the vanity.

 

“Why are you shaking? Are you hurt? I don’t have renter’s insurance so if you have to go to the hospital don’t tell them you were here!”

 

“Nope, nope, nope. No hospital. Just scared.”

 

Him?! SCARED?! He broke into your house to take a fucking bubble bath! A bubble bath that now was all over your bathroom floor. This needed to be cleaned up before it became an insurance issue.

 

“Get out, Tom.”

 

~

 

Thirty minutes later, you’re both sitting at your kitchen table. Tom has a towel rolled up onto his head and you are sipping at some coffee. Well, it’s in a coffee mug but it may or may not be coffee.

 

“Tom, why were you in my bathtub?”

 

“I have a date tonight.”

 

_Oh yeah._

 

For two weeks now your client has been glued to his cell phone and any attempts to ask what he’s doing has been met with, ‘Just talking to my new girlfriend.’

 

You are pretty sure she doesn’t exist. His answers are never consistent. She is either 18 or 45, possibly blonde but could have bright red hair, and definitely has eyes like Elizabeth Smart. When asked if he meant Elizabeth Taylor he insists Smart, not Taylor. So you stopped questioning it.

 

Why would he need to emphasize a specific person if they had a natural eye color?

 

**No. Stop. You’re not questioning it anymore.**

 

“Oh. Yeah. That still doesn’t explain why you’re getting ready at my house but okay. Can you just close my front door next time you come by?” you take a large gulp of your 'coffee’ while he gives you a withering look. You both know he’s never going to do that.

 

You set your mug down wearily and lean back while giving Tom another look over. His slip in the tub didn’t seem to do any damage. So you’re best bet is to try and get him out of here pronto before that changes.

 

“Do you need help getting ready?”

 

His blue eyes light up and he nods vigorously.

 

“Alright. But you’re not using all of my personal products!”

 

~

 

Tom Hiddleston used all of your personal products. Not like completely emptied them but definitely close to it.

 

You have to admit that he must have picked something up from all his time getting made over by makeup artists because he looked incredible.

 

He really only needed one final touch.

 

“Please stop! It’s just a little spray. It’s going to keep your hair in place. Don’t you want it to look good?” you are pleading with him as he dodges around your living room with his large hands covering the top of his head.

 

It’d be funny if you weren’t trying to genuinely help him.

 

“You can’t! It’ll cause me to explode!"

 

He ends up on top of your end table after you tried to spray a puff at him.

 

"That’s literally impossible. Besides, I know for a fact you’ve had hairspray put into your hair before.”

 

“I wasn’t as hot as I am now!”

 

After another swift shuffle around the room and you finally get him cornered between two bookshelves.

 

You open your mouth to say something but decide against it and simply close your mouth and smile sweetly. The hand holding the spray gets lowered slightly and you hold out your free hand in invitation.

 

Tom seems to think that this means you’re giving up and readily accepts your extended hand.

 

As soon as you can grasp his hand tight, you give him a firm tug towards yourself and instantly start spraying at his head.

 

He wails and bats at your hand but misses since he has closed his eyes against the assault.

 

You eventually stop and lower the can again.

 

You both remain standing there, holding hands, while Tom scrubs at his face and you smirk evilly.

 

“Tom.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You’re not on fire,” and with that, you release him and start to gather up all your personal items.

 

The actor continues to rub at his face, avoiding his hair, while you take your stuff back to your room. A small part of you feels victorious for having successfully gotten him to do something he didn’t want to. Even though you were only trying to help him get ready for a date with someone who probably didn’t exist.

  
However, all jubilant feelings are lost when you return to the living room and find it lacking the man of the hour.

 

The front door is still closed so he didn’t leave.

 

You wander into the kitchen and immediately freeze.

 

“Put it down. Now!”

 

Tom shakes his head and continues to hold the lighter up near his hair.

 

“You can’t burn yourself to prove that the hairspray would make you explode. There is no logic to it. So please put my lighter back. I don’t want you wasting the lighter fluid.”

 

Another head shake. He was more committed then you were prepared for. What the hell do you do if he actually ignites his hair?

 

Does Tom know 'stop, drop, and roll’? You should have asked Luke before now. Really this late in the game is just negligence on your part.

 

You give a distressed sigh and deliberately raise your hands in a sign of surrender, “I don’t know what time your date is but maybe we can fix this? There might be time for another bath?”

 

He gives this some consideration while running his lighter-less hand through his beard.

 

_Nooo! Not the beard-stroking!_

 

“It would give me the chance for an encore performance.”

 

“What?”

 

“I was singing before you scared me. I could do the whole routine again.”

 

“What were you singing?” very carefully you start to creep closer to him, hands still raised.

 

Tom doesn’t notice as he waves the lighter around while explaining, “I’ve been on an Aqua kick and I can’t seem to nail all of the parts to 'Barbie Girl’.”

 

**Speechless.**

 

What the hell do you say to that?

 

Evidently, you decide the answer is 'nothing’ and instead try to leap and grab for the lighter.

 

Your client gives a startled gasp and whips his hands up to where you can’t reach them. It really doesn’t matter what your height is because it can’t beat his long arms.

 

Then, before you can decide that you made a fatal mistake, Tom lowers his hand just enough to flick the lighter and catch a few strands of hair on fire.

 

~

 

"So, we aren’t going to have to turn this in on my renter’s insurance?” you ask nervously. Maybe too nervously. It’s going to be obvious that you never bothered to even look into it.

 

“No. No. No. Unless you want to? I’m not 100% on how any insurance works but I don’t think it’s necessary unless something actually burned down.” Luke’s words calm your nerves and you groan in relief.

 

The two of you simultaneously lift paper coffee cups up and take deep drinks of the rapidly cooling beverages. You squirm a little as you try to get more comfortable on the park bench. It’d be easier if your knee wasn’t still bothering you. Also be easier if your hand didn’t hurt now.

 

After a minute or two, he finally breaks the silence and inquiries, “What did you two even tell the A&E staff?”

 

“All I said was that I saw his head on fire and patted it out,” you lift your bandaged hand, “and then offered to drive him to the ER.”

 

Luke just looks at you… waiting for the rest of the story.

 

“From what a nurse told me, Tom said that he was out running to get to his date and got so hot that his head caught on fire. He was lucky some civilian saw him,” you chuckle and rub tiredly at your eyes with your uninjured hand. It was probably good that this job had excellent health insurance since Tom was likely going to be the death of you at some point.

 

“All they told me was that he was in shock and assured me they wouldn’t breathe a word to the media,” he takes another sip of his drink before shaking his head. “Not that anyone would believe them since you can’t tell that the man lit his hair on fire.”

 

“I know! You can’t even tell that someone trimmed it shorter.”

 

Another significant lapse of talking. Coffee is sipped more leisurely now, joggers pass you with heavy footsteps, and somewhere in the background kids are screaming and playing.

 

The only other noise in the park is one protestor shouting at a group of people and those people attempting to take pictures and video of him.

 

“Yes! Yes! Post this all over the internet! Y/N needs to be exiled from London and never allowed to work in the UK again!”

 

You scrunch your nose up and sneak a peak towards the protestor. He’d been following you around for three days now. Anywhere. Everywhere. The guy clearly needed a job.

 

“Do you think he’ll get tired soon?” you ask Luke while glancing back at him.

 

He just shakes his head again and eyes you with a sardonic look,“Is this because of the girlfriend rumor?”

 

“Luke, we both know she isn’t real,” you pause to give your companion a chance to nod his head in agreement, “But no. This is about cheese puffs."

 

"Cheese puffs?!"

 

If you didn’t know any better you would say that, for the first time, Luke sounds almost irritated.

 

"Yeah. For some reason, he was hiding a stash of those cheese-ball-puffs at my place. Well, he wouldn’t put the lid on the canister and I was getting an insane amount of ants in my apartment. I threw them away and told him to stop hiding them.”

 

You’d been telling him for two months but Tom kept thinking that he could find a better hiding spot and would leave them again. After a few days, you’d follow the ant trail to the new hidey spot and repeat the argument with the actor.

 

Three days ago, you outright threw them into the garbage bin outside, while Tom indignantly watched. You told him that this was the absolute last time.

 

So, for three days he had followed you everywhere to protest your abuse of him.

 

Yesterday, he’d gone so far as to have a legitimate sign printed up with your face on it! Of course, there was a huge X mark over top of it but it was still kinda cool.

 

Luke slouches against the bench and mutters, “I KNEW he was still eating them and had to be hiding them somewhere.”

 

Honestly, even though you were on good terms with him, you still felt no sympathy for Luke. He was getting paid more AND he refused to give you all your demands from your last attempt to quit.

 

Some more people were gathering around Tom as he started to explain that cheese puffs were an important part of the food pyramid. All of them had their phones out and you wondered how Luke and the agency were going to explain away this madness.

 

Is he researching for a role? Was Tom secretly filming for a documentary AT THAT VERY MOMENT? That isn’t really Tom? He has a twin brother?

 

Almost as if sensing that you’re thinking about him, Tom turns his head and grins at you. With your good hand, you give him a wave and a thumbs up. His smile deepens and he returns to yelling at the crowd.

 

What were you going to do? Try to stop him?

 

**Motherfucker is crazy.**

 

Honestly? This is the closest thing to a vacation you’d had in months.

 

Let him continue to get support for your deportation and subsequent job loss.

 

_It was Luke who would suffer the most from it._

**Author's Note:**

> Internet, please have mercy on my soul.  
> Have I apologized yet? No?  
> Then let me start here.  
> I'm so sorry.  
> Seriously.  
> Bye.


End file.
